


There Are Ghosts

by eight_0f_hearts



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Neverland, healing for everybody yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eight_0f_hearts/pseuds/eight_0f_hearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Neverland, Morse worries about Thursday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pudupudu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pudupudu/gifts).



> For a fic-exchange with pudupudu!
> 
> Apologies that the trial scene is a bit rushed. I could not remember the details of the case and I am not emotionally recovered enough to rewatch Neverland yet hahaha

It is after two days of twiddling his thumbs in jail that Morse hears the words he has been waiting for - “You have a visitor” - and his heart lurches with a terrible futile hope that fizzes away disappointingly when he sees who it is.

Strange has never looked so embarrassed to be himself before, and it is not just because he is not Thursday. When he steps into the cell he doesn't seem to know quite what to do with his hands – or his face, for that matter; he starts out with an awkward half-smile that then contorts into something a bit more concerned when Morse does not smile back.

“Is he alive?” Morse asks, before Strange can speak.

A few blinks. “What- oh. Yes, he is.”

“How is he?”

“He's... alright.”

A solid alright, well then, nothing to worry about! Morse stands up from the low bunk. His back hurts from sitting in one position for too long but there is little else to do in here but sit and think.

“What does alright mean? Is he stable? He'll be...?”

“I don't know the details, I'm sorry. Last I heard he was doing fine. Expected to pull through.”

Why he could not have just said this in the first place is beyond Morse. His shoulders slump in relief and he takes note of the way Strange's hands twitch by his side, like he wants to reach out and touch him. Normally Morse would let him but not here, not now, not when the anger at his betrayal – because it was a betrayal – is still hard and heavy in his stomach. It will take him a while to let it go and the worst part about being stuck here, in prison, is that there is little room for anything _but_ introspection and he has spent the last forty-eight hours unable to erase the memory of the gunshot, of the feel of Thursday's blood sticky between his fingers and the way he looked being carried out on that stretcher, wrapped in a blanket the way forensics always wrapped bodies in blankets if they needed to take them out through a public area.

Strange clears his throat. “How about you, matey, how are you holding up?”

 _Don't matey me,_ Morse thinks, a bit petulantly, and flaps a dismissive hand, and this time Strange does reach forward and grabs his shoulder and turns him around. Says, “Look, I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry. It wasn't worth it. I don't... he'll be fine, but if he wasn't it'd be on me.”

Morse knows he has the capability to be cruel and the words _damn right_ are on the tip of his tongue. But there is genuine remorse in Strange's eyes, and it could be worse – he could have not fetched Bright at all, and Thursday could have been carried out in a body bag, and maybe it has just been easier to blame Strange than it would be to blame himself (fine help he was, after all, what was he going to do, defend Thursday from Deare with the power of A. E. Housman? _)._ So he just nods, instead, and keeps the thought _if he died I would not forgive you and I would not forgive me_ to himself and replies, “Tell me when he wakes up.”

 

* * *

 

Thursday wakes up three days later, but Strange does not tell Morse, which means he gets the shock of his life when he is escorted into the courtroom and sees his familiar face staring back at him from the crowd.

He looks like hell, there is no kind way to put it. Pale and sickly with dark wells around his eyes like bruises and that pinched look that speaks of being in pain and trying damn hard to hide it. When his gaze catches Morse's, though, he can't help but smile, solid and reassuring. It turns into a wince halfway through but Morse is inexpressibly grateful for the effort.

Jakes is beside him, wearing slicked back hair and sharp suit like it's armour. Morse has never been so glad to see him back to his usual self. He looks worried, insofar as Jakes has ever looked worried, but it is only half for Morse's sake. His gaze keeps flickering to Thursday, seated beside him, and it soon becomes very obvious that the inspector should be in a hospital bed rather than a courtroom.

The trial drags on for some hours and whenever Morse glances at Thursday he looks progressively paler. He is called on to give testimony multiple times, ranging from his knowledge of corruption in the station even before they knew it was Deare to an assessment of Morse's character (“Does he _look_ like the sort of person who could sneak up and Isadora Duncan someone?”).

It is when they start cracking down on him about the events of the night in question that things begin to get intense. They have been here for some time now and Morse can see that Win, seated in the public viewing area, is growing concerned – with good reason. A mixture of exhaustion and stress has drained the colour from Thursday's face and he is hunched over slightly, clinging to the witness podium with white knuckled fingers.

“But he did _leave your house_ , for some hours?” The moustachioed and most likely Masonic prosecutor for the crown demands.

“ _Yes_ – in order to meet Chard, who as I understand then _shot_ at him!”

“Mr Chard is not on trial here,” the prosecutor says coldly, even though said man looks rather the worse for wear after his hit-by-a-car incident, which at least backs up Thursday's testimony. “And he was not wearing his scarf when you saw him next, at the school?”

“No, but he hadn't been wearing it before then.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we were indoors, weren't we!”

“But there _was_ a period of time both before he came to your house and after he left it when he was out of your sight and could conceivably have gone off to commit the murder?”

And so it goes on, the prosecutor continuing to hammer Thursday and taking every possible opportunity to twist his words. Frustrating as Morse finds it, he knows it is a part of the court process.

When Thursday is finally released from the stand he takes two steps and promptly keels over. There is a gasp from the crowd, Jakes jumping up and hurrying over, Win pushing her way out from the seating area. Morse half-rises but the guard behind him grabs his shoulder and shoves him back down into his seat, fingers tightening in warning. He strains to see. The judge has risen by now, too.

“Everything alright?” he demands.

Jakes is at Thursday's side by now, one arm hooked around his chest as he pulls him upright a bit. “He's fine, he's fine,” the sergeant calls out. “Should be getting back to the hospital now.”

The judge waves a hand. “We have heard his testimony. There is no need for him to stay here.”

Thursday grips the front of Jakes' shirt, and has a hushed but heated conversation with he and Win. Even from this distance Morse can tell he is trying to convince them to let him stay. Win wins out, however, and moments later Jakes is half-dragging Thursday out of the courtroom, one arm wrapped around his waist to keep him upright.

* * *

 

It is another week before Morse is released from jail. Despite the uncertain verdict of the court, it is easier to cope when he knows that Thursday is at least alive. Jakes is the one who comes to pick him up. There's a very awkward silence once they're in the car alone together.

“The governor got you out,” Jakes says finally, when they're waiting at a light. “Damn near killed himself doing it.”

“What?” Morse asks, rather alarmed, and Jakes shakes his head, tutting.

“Figure of speech!” He smiles a bit, half-amused by the other's jumpiness. “For all the doctor's orders of bed resting he wouldn't stop running around. Calling in favours, digging up evidence. We got Chard, in the end.” The smile turns cold, his fingers tightening momentarily on the wheel. Part of Morse wants to ask if he's alright but rationally he knows that his silence on the matter is the best thing he can possibly do for Jakes.

“Where's Thursday now?” Morse asks.

“Home. Now that you're out Bright's forced some sick leave on him.”

“Can you take me there instead? I need to see him.”

“For God's sake fix _yourself_ up first. The last thing he needs is to wake up and see you with that horrendous beard.”

So Morse goes home and shaves, and when he goes back out Jakes is still waiting there for him and takes him around to the Thursdays'.

* * *

 

“Morse!” is the first thing Thursday says upon seeing him. His whole face lights up as he struggles to sit more upright in the bed. Morse smiles back and reaches forward to try and help him and there's an awkward moment where they half move towards each other as though to hug, but then don't go through with it. By the time Morse pulls back it's too late to move back in, but Thursday reaches out and clasps him by the shoulder and he holds the other man's arm in turn, and for a moment they sit there grinning stupidly at each other.

“How are you?” Morse asks. “Are you... you collapsed in court-”

Thursday waves a hand. “I'm fine. Not the first time I've been shot.” This added with a grim sort of chuckle that Morse can't quite bring himself to laugh along with. “I'll be up in no time.”

“Jakes said you..."

“Jakes said what?” Thursday demands, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Morse replies, because Thursday does not look much better now than he did in the courtroom. “Just stay in bed now.”

“I'm not an invalid,” Thursday mutters, then promptly loses all credibility when he tries to reach for a glass of water on the beside table and nearly doubles over in pain. He waves off Morse's rather flailing attempts to help and falls back against the pillow, coughing a bit.

Morse hands the glass to him and Thursday takes one look at his pinched face and says, “Oh stop fussing, you're worse than Win. I'm _fine_.”

“I didn't say anything!”

“I can see you thinking it.”

“I just...” _Want you to be okay. Thought you were going to die. Can't bear to think about..._

Thursday looks at him and seems to understand. His face softens a little as he puts the glass back on the table and reaches out to pat Morse's wrist.

“Alright now. Do me a favour and fetch me the newspaper, would you? I'm going mad here with nothing to do.”

“Try the crossword,” Morse replies, his smile returning, and Thursday laughs.

* * *

 

Someone has a vague thought to throw some sort of celebration when Thursday finally returns to work. It falls a bit flat because half the force doesn't know about it so there's a rather halfhearted chorus of “Welcome back!” when he walks in the door with Morse in tow. Bright peers out of his office door, mouth open to complain about the noise, but he closes it again when he sees what is going on.

“Glad to have you back, Thursday,” he replies, and gives them both a secret sort of smile. Morse has heard from Jakes how Bright worked discreetly to get him out of jail – Strange too, which accompanied with the fact that Thursday is fine now has his resentment towards the other man's actions fading a little.

Things are not the same as they were before, both for better and for worse.

Evidence has stopped going missing but there's an odd tension in the station, a lingering disgruntlement towards the way both Morse and Thursday look at the others. Within their team, however, they've pulled together more; Jakes seems to have formed some new understanding with both Morse and Thursday. They get along better.

There are ghosts, though. There are always ghosts.

The three of them are in Thursday's office one day when a door slams, loudly, a banging _crack_ that sounds like a gunshot and all three of them jump a mile, spinning around.

Thursday is the first to try and laugh it off, a laugh that is just the wrong side of nervous.

“We make a bloody trio, don't we?” he says, except Morse can see his hands shaking where they rest on the desk and he exchanges a glance with Jakes, who, it seems, has noticed too. They are very careful with how they close doors from then on.

You would have to be blind, though, to not notice that Thursday's nerves have been rattled by this latest experience. A car backfiring, a balloon popping, the bangs and crashes of a construction site all make him jump. Morse has no idea what to do; comforting people is not his forte and he can tell that Thursday is uncomfortable with any semblance of pity. After the first time Morse asked if he was alright he got snapped at and things were stilted, uncomfortable for the rest of the day. He doesn't know what to do because last time it was him who was jumping at shadows.

Monica helped with that, solving the case did too, but this is – this is different.

 _It's not the first time I've been shot_.

A case takes them to an athletics carnival where starting pistols are set off every ten minutes. It is nightmarish. Every time one fires Thursday jerks a bit and gives a little sharp intake of breath, eventually folding his arms to keep his hands from shaking. It gets to the point where Morse starts keeping an eye on the man with the gun and then nudging Thursday whenever he's about to fire so he can prepare, but even knowing that the sound is coming doesn't seem to help.

He can tell that Thursday is getting more and more frustrated with himself, with his inability to Be Okay, and the need to do something grows stronger and stronger but he still doesn't know _what_.

 

* * *

 

And then things go really badly wrong. A lead takes them to a shifty part of town, down by the river. They split up to go and look for any clues, except it turns out their perp has been hiding there all along and when Morse goes back to where Thursday is, he finds him fighting the man. He's holding his own until the guy lands a punch to his torso _right_ where he got shot, and Thursday drops like a stone with a winded sort of gasp.

Morse's first thought is _shit_ because now the guy is advancing on him, and while he is thankfully unarmed, fist-fighting is not his forte. Except Thursday has already worn him down a good deal, and for some reason he's still carrying around those bloody knuckle dusters, and he manages to duck the man's first swipe and get in a few good punches that have him dropping to the ground, dazed enough that Morse can cuff him and wait for Strange and the others to get there.

He hurries to Thursday's side. He's sitting up a bit, coughing now and then, and Morse goes to prop him against the wall.

Thursday's eyes flicker to his hand, to the brass knuckles. “Didn't think you kept those,” he croaks.

“Neither did I,” Morse replies – he shoved them in his coat pocket and then a few months later put said coat away for the winter and never ended up taking them out. He pulls them off and drops them to the ground with a clatter. “You alright? Should I be calling an ambulance?”

“No,” Thursday replies, one hand pressed to his stomach, “Just winded.”

Morse is not a medical man, but Thursday has not gotten up and horrible thoughts like _bleeding internally_ are drifting into his head. He forces himself not to panic and instead moves to sit down next to Thursday, leaning against the wall. For a few moments they watch the criminal, lying on the ground a few metres away, hands cuffed behind his back and moaning pitifully now and then.

“What happened the first time?” It comes out almost without him willing it to, and he feels Thursday stiffen beside him.

For a minute he thinks that Thursday is not going to answer. Then he takes a deep breath.

“Italy,” he says, curtly. “The war. We were holed up in the hills – slowed down by some defences we didn't think would be that strong. Clean in and out, not like this one. Guess I didn't get as lucky the second time.” He shakes his head with a little self-deprecating smile. “A lot of people got shot in the war.”

“This isn't the war,” Morse replies. “This is Oxford.”

Thursday glances at him. “You got shot here.”

“And I'm fine now.” It takes saying it out loud to realise that it's true – and furthermore that he didn't just become fine overnight. Hell, it was five months before he could hear a loud noise without flinching, and he was only shot the once.

Thursday opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again and gives a sigh. He is not normally one for the heart to heart, but he reaches over, jostles Morse's shoulder.

“And I will be too, Morse,” he says, quietly, sounding reassuring to himself as much as to his constable. “In time.”

Morse lets out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding – had maybe been holding for some time now. For now they are both free. Deare is dead, Chard is behind bars. He is alive and Thursday is alive. In time they will be alright.

Strange pulls up in his little blue car. When he gets out he slams the door loudly, and Thursday jumps a little, but his fingers, still clasped to Morse's shoulder, do not tremble.

 


End file.
